


Hen Party

by SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Girls Night Out, Westeros-style
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 19:52:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17566925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: The problem with telling a great story is that everyone wants to repeat it.  And the problem with telling any story to a room of young girls still drunk on wine is that they don’t always remember all the details.  And the problem with telling a story that’s almost accurate and almost romantic is that it could very well become a lot less accurate and a lot more romantic with every telling, embellished just a little by every set of lips it passes.Unfortunately for Alayne... that’s exactly what happened.





	Hen Party

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AzraelGFG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzraelGFG/gifts).



> Happy nameday Az!

_“Ooof!”_

“Shhhhhhhhh… gods, Alayne, you’re gonna get us caught!”

Alayne frowned at her friend though it was too dark for her to see, all the while rubbing the foot she had just stubbed on the bed.  After the stinging subsided, she and Randa quickly slipped out of her room and down the hall. 

It was Mya’s nameday, and Myranda had insisted that they celebrate by going down to a tavern for some wine and music and general revelry.  Alayne was not permitted to go, of course, her father insisting it was far too dangerous for a girl her age.  Her age hadn’t stopped his unfatherly caresses, though, so Alayne figured she was plenty old enough to sneak out.

Fortunately they had found an ally in Lothor Brune- he would do anything to make Mya happy, and since Myranda insisted that a nameday celebration was just what Mya deserved, he’d relented.  So when Alayne emerged from her room in an appropriately modest dress but at an inappropriately late hour, Lothor had looked her over… then looked the other way.

The tavern they hurried to was one Myranda frequented often, because it was cleaner and safer than the others.  Or so she said.  ‘Clean’ and ‘safe’ were not the words Alayne would have used to describe the place, though she kept that opinion to herself.  But she was with friends she knew and a few that she didn’t know _yet,_ and when two girls roughly her own age took seats at the table and introduced themselves, all of her concerns slipped away. 

And that’s when things truly got interesting.

The stories these girls could tell… gods, she’d always thought Myranda was bad.  Turned out that Mya was nearly as bad, but of the four of them Dawn was clearly the worst.  Or best, depending on how one looked at things.  At one point she told a story so appalling that Alayne couldn’t help but ask – quite sincerely-- if it was still called ‘coupling’ when there were so many participants.  It only made the others howl with laughter.  She never did get an answer.

Jenny, on the other hand, reminded Alayne so much of the girl she used to be-- hopeful and dreamy and entirely in love with being in love.  She told plenty of stories too, except they almost never strayed into the impropriety that the other girls seemed to head right into, instead focusing on the romantic aspects of any tale she recounted. 

She tried, really, to follow along and laugh at the right places, but most of the time she didn’t understand what was funny, what sent the others into fits of giggles.  Worse was that she had nothing at all to offer of her own, a fact that did not remain unnoticed for too long.   

“Alayne, you’re so quiet,” Dawn remarked during a lull in the conversation.  “Don’t you have any good stories?”

“No, she does _not_ ,” Myranda answered for her.  “I’ve heard her stories, and they’re all boring!”

“You must have _something_ ,” Dawn tried again.  “How is it you’ve made it this far without letting a man have a go?”

The girls laughed while Alayne blushed and tried to laugh, too, praying that if she just smiled and nodded they would move on to the next tale without any more teasing.  And perhaps they would have, had Jenny not taken her hand at that moment and said--

“Surely there was _someone_ in your life.” 

And then they were all looking at her again, waiting, expectant.  Four sets of eyes on her from four very different people-- bold Myranda, brave Mya, wild Dawn… and sentimental Jenny.  Jenny the dreamer.  Jenny the lover.  If anyone would understand, it would be Jenny.

“Well… there was _one_ person.”

“Start from the beginning,” Dawn ordered, moving closer.  “How did you know this man?”

“I don’t know… he just… lived in the same… village as me.  He was a… fighter.  With a sword.”

“A knight?”

“No,” she said vehemently; the girls looked stunned by her answer but she did not elaborate.

“Then where did he fight?”

“Everywhere.” Alayne shrugged.  “Wherever he was needed.”

“A sellsword?”

“Uh… yes, that’s right.”  That would work, she supposed.  Better than the truth.

“And you were friends?”

“Um, no… I wouldn’t say we were friends.” 

They _weren’t_ friends.  They weren’t really _anything_.  And yet whatever it was between them _meant_ something to her, so much more than the bored faces of her friends could possibly understand. 

She was losing their interest, and she’d barely even started.

Not that she could truly blame them, not when they wanted a story of love or lust or anything other than what she was offering.  It wasn’t her fault, though-- she was a maiden and required to remain so, completely inexperienced except for her father’s attentions, and as much as she wanted to tell her companions _why_ she was so innocent, another part of her-- the bastard part of her-- was tired of _being_ so innocent.

“I’d say we were closer to lovers.”

The chorus of whistles and _ooooooohhhhhhs_ was exactly what she was hoping for, then all four girls leaned into her, waiting for more information and _that’s_ when Alayne got nervous.

“It was just kissing,” she said, because even though she was inventing it all she was still too timid to admit to much more than that.  “Lots… of kissing.”

“The _lord’s_ kiss?” Mya pressed.

“He wasn’t a lord,” she answered, not understanding; Myranda snorted.

“But he kissed you everywhere?”

“Wherever possible-- in the corridor, in the gardens, in my room, of course…”

“Alayne…” Myranda muttered, dropping her head into her hands, clearly disappointed in the response.  “Everywhere _on your body?”_

“Oh!  Uh… yes?” she guessed, but the nods of approval she received meant she was doing fine.  “Yes, everywhere.”

“Nice,” Mya practically purred.  “I’ll wager you kissed it back, then.”

_It?_

“I did, yes,” she answered, with a confidence she didn’t feel.  “Often.  Quite… often.”

From there the conversation erupted in comparisons as the girls tossed around words that didn’t seem to have anything to do with what they were discussing, just the most awful words like ‘hot’ and ‘bumpy’ and ‘salty.’  She had no choice but to agree to them all, grateful they were too drunk to notice she was lying.

“Was he large?”

“Yes,” she answered immediately, because it was true and she always felt better with the truth.  “One of the tallest men I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh, gods, Alayne, that’s not what I meant!”

Alayne blinked at Myranda, trying to figure her meaning.  What else could she have been speaking of when she asked if he was large?  She turned puzzled eyes from one curious face to another until the sordid pieces fell into place.

“I don’t know!” she shrieked, scandalized, but their confused looks had her continuing quickly with, "I mean... I don’t have anything to compare it to.”

That must have been the correct answer, because soon they were giggling again.

“Did it _seem_ very large?”

“Uh… what would be considered very large?” she asked hesitantly.  All four girls immediately held up their hands to show what they thought fit the definition, teasing each other for their interpretations and fortunately overlooking Alayne’s stunned expression.  Surely that couldn’t be accurate.

“Well?” Dawn pressed.  “How does it compare?”

Four sets of eyes were on her again, waiting expectantly for an answer, and even though she didn’t really know what she was talking about she played the odds and gave her best response.

“Bigger,” she said confidently; the girls shrieked in approval.

“But you lived in a mother’s house,” Mya interjected, her face twisting in confusion.  “How in hells did you manage that?”

“Oh, we always found a way,” Alayne answered slyly.  “Sometimes he would escort me where I was going, or come to my room in the dark of night.” 

It wasn’t a lie, really- he _had_ escorted her plenty of times, and he _had_ come to her room in the dark of night.  Once.

“Was he handsome?”

“No.”

Another wrong answer, she could tell from their startled silence.  It was the truth, though- he was hardly the definition of handsome and she saw no reason to lie about that.  But at the same time…

“And yet, in some ways he _was,_ ” she continued, still with the truth.  “To me, at least.”

“What did he look like?”

“Um, well…he had black hair.  And gray eyes.  And he was scarred.” 

She added the last part quickly, before she forgot.  It was just a story-- a stupid, false story-- and yet it felt entirely unfair to omit the biggest part of him.  He’d be angry, if he knew; he _wouldn’t_ know, of course, but she still couldn’t betray him like that. 

“ _Very_ scarred,” she said again.  “On his face.”

“What was his name?” Jenny asked.

“It was, uh.... Alyn?”

“Alyn and Alayne?” Jenny gasped, delighted.  “That’s destiny!”

“You think so?”

“Yes!” the four girls answered in unison.

The very idea pleased her, though it shouldn’t have-- that name wasn’t real, so it _couldn’t_ be destiny.   

“But whatever happened to him?”

Her friends had softened at some point during her story, their lustful expressions replaced with this curious one.  A _hopeful_ one.  She’d been worried she would disappoint them with her chaste tale.  Now that it was heading towards a sad end, she was worried again.    

“You have to understand-- the war was just starting, our situation was… difficult.  He was never particularly nice to me, not really.  But he was always… _there_.  I guess I got used to having him around.  I _liked_ having him around.”

A cloud was hanging over her then, a solemn feeling blanketing the table they sat at.  Jenny reached out a hand to comfort her while the other girls offered murmurs of understanding.

“The streets were really dangerous in town, for everyone.  One day there was a riot- people were killing each other, women getting raped, and….he wasn’t there, he _wasn’t_.  And then suddenly, he _was_.  He beat through the crowd to get to me and take me to safety.  I would have died that day if not for him.” 

“That’s so romantic,” Jenny sighed, but otherwise the girls remained silent, all enraptured by the story Alayne was telling.  Oh gods, she hadn’t intended to say the things she’d said.  She was trying to tell a titillating story, not one that sent them into quiet introspection.  But now she’d started… she needed to go on.

“The war was coming to... our village, there was no way around it, and then one night there was a battle.  There was screaming, fire everywhere, people dying.  I was so scared!  I ran to my… room… and… he was _there_.  In my _bed_.”

“I can’t believe you never told me this story,” Myranda complained, but the other girls hushed her into silence.

“He was leaving,” she said, trying to keep the bitterness from her tone.  “He wanted to take me with him, said he’d keep me safe.  He said no one would ever hurt me or he’d kill them.”

It was as if the group sighed all at once, releasing the sorrow that had rapidly built during the short time she’d been speaking.  Myranda pressed a hand over her heart. 

“Than what happened?”

“He left.  He gave me his cloak and his kiss and then he just… left.”

And that was it- the end of the story, the part that gave her a familiar stab of guilt, the part that twisted in her gut reminding her of how he’d left, how she’d let him leave, how she regretted it every day since then.  She wanted to make her excuses, tell the girls her reasons-- that she was too young and too scared and too ignorant to know what fate awaited her.  She didn’t, of course.  But they seemed to understand anyway.

“This is the most beautiful and tragic story I’ve ever heard,” Jenny announced breathlessly, ever the dreamer.  “Everyone needs to know the tale of the fair maid Alayne and her brave Ser Alyn.”

“Not a ser,” she corrected on instinct.

But no one was really listening anymore.  They’d already moved on to the next ribald story, some tale Myranda told of a sailor who’d rocked her ‘like a boat at sea.’  Whatever that meant.    

Alayne stared out the window, out into the dark and snow to somewhere that wasn’t here, and wiped a tear before anyone could see it.  Later-- much later-- she would not be able to recall a single other story from that evening other than the one she’d told.  It wasn’t the first time she’d thought about her past--- about _their_ past, the one they shared—but it was the first time she’d talked about it.  She wasn’t sure if she felt better or worse and reached for the wine to help her find an answer but only found more questions. 

Whatever happened to him, she wondered.  Was he alive?  Was he well?  Did he ever think of her?  She hoped upon hope that the answers were all yes.  But even more she hoped that-- wherever he was-- Sandor Clegane was happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Hen Party was the working title, open to any suggestions!


End file.
